


Regions of Kindness

by innerslytherin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-28
Updated: 2014-11-28
Packaged: 2018-02-27 06:36:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,014
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2682875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/innerslytherin/pseuds/innerslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Era: 1981-1997 - After Voldemort's defeat in 1981, Remus Lupin is left alone, and he is an angry and bitter young man.  But out of loss, kindness can grow, and sometimes an unlikely person provides the opportunity for redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Regions of Kindness

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to lore, who always made my fics better than they would have been on my own.

_Before you know what kindness really is_  
 _you must lose things,_  
 _feel the future dissolve in a moment_  
 _like salt in a weakened broth._  
\-- Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye

 

Oh yes, he has lost things. Lost his friends, lost his family, lost his love and his world. He has lost his direction. Lost his dreams, lost his faith. Lost his temper, lost his mind.

The war is won, and Remus Lupin is lost.

* * *

“There’s no need for this!” James is pacing. Peter sits, frowning, at the table. Remus is watching warily, because James’ temper is unpredictable these days. Lily has gone upstairs to put Harry to bed. Sirius is sitting in a chair shoved away from the table; his head is down, clutched in his hands, his shoulders hunched.

They have been arguing again. Every night now, it is the same story. The five of them here—or, at least, as many of the five as possible—and food, and beer, and a row.

Sometimes Peter is away, because he has a new girlfriend and she requires careful courtship. The Marauders haven’t met her yet, because he says they would scare her off. Very rarely James is gone, because he is an Auror and can still be called out, though it is only in the case of emergencies these days. Sometimes Remus is absent, because as a precaution they’ve halted the full moon runs, and he’s back to two-day recoveries afterwards. Not to mention the fact that he’s got a dying mother to care for, and she’s all he has left for a family, besides his friends. Lily and Harry often spend the days with her, but he can’t keep imposing on Lily, even if she is as dear to him as any sister could be.

But there is dissension in the ranks, and Remus feels an ominous building, as if of a thundercloud. He knows the storm will not be long in coming. They are too quick, these days, to ask questions of each other. “Did you have a nice time with Trixie?” they ask Peter. “How is your mum feeling today?” they ask Remus. “Heard from your brother lately?” they ask Sirius. Their voices are bright and overly cheerful and thick with suspicion. And the person being questioned smiles tightly and answers the question, and pretends he doesn’t realize what they’re really asking.

“No, it _is_ needed.” Sirius’ voice is low and tense, and for a moment Remus almost doesn’t believe it’s Sirius speaking, because it is such a strange tone for him. “We can’t trust anyone else,” he is saying, and he still isn’t looking up at them. Remus suspects he means he can’t trust anyone but himself—that he trusts James, of course, but not Peter, not Remus, not even Dumbledore.

“We can’t turn against each other!” James cries, his frustration obvious in his voice. “That’s what they want!”

Remus sighs quietly and lowers his gaze for a moment. James has always been the Gryffindor’s Gryffindor, the man who refuses to believe ill of his friends, the man who assumes the best of everyone, the one who does things because they are right. It is why he rescued Snape when Sirius would have had him killed, and it is why he is so unwilling to accept the suspicion that Sirius is demanding of them.

When Remus looks up again, he finds Sirius’ eyes riveted on him, bright with suspicion. _Yes,_ Remus wants to say. _Yes, I am your traitor. Turn on me, cast me out, if it will bring you so much relief._ No matter that he isn’t the traitor, no matter that it would kill him to lose any of them, even little Peter, because they are his family, his brothers. Sirius’ suspicion hurts far too much to continue living with it.

“I think it’s a good idea, James,” Remus says, his voice quiet. He is the voice of reason, as always, and he says it because Sirius wants to hear it, and because James will listen. Peter’s look of alarm surprises him, but he supposes it is because Peter doesn’t understand that it is Remus whom Sirius suspects, and not Peter.

James turns on Remus. “You think it’s a good idea!” he retorts sharply. “Have you forgotten my wife is helping you care for your mother? What would happen to Elizabeth if we went into hiding?”

“If you felt so strongly, you could take her with you,” Remus suggests, and is rewarded with a glare from Sirius. “I think it unnecessary, however; Madam Pomfrey has offered to have Mother there, and I am certain she would be better off.” He closes his eyes briefly. This is her last decline, he knows, and Lily knows, and Pomfrey knows as well. Elizabeth Lupin has lost the vitality she once possessed. She will go to Hogwarts, and she will not come out again.

Lily has returned, quietly. Remus sees her leaning against the doorframe, listening to their disagreement. There is a crease in her brow, her green eyes darkened with worry or fear. He understands. She feels the cloud.

There is a long silence. James is standing still now, in the middle of the floor, and he is looking down at the carpet as if it holds the answers to the huge decisions he is facing. Sirius is jouncing his leg now, impatient for an answer, impatient for action. Peter waits, watching James avidly. Remus says nothing. At last Lily leaves the doorway and comes to stand behind James and put her hand on his arm.

James looks up. “We’ll do it.”

* * *

And they disappear. It isn’t as simple as that, of course, but to Remus, it might as well be. They have chosen Sirius to be the keeper of their secrets—he alone, in all the world, knows where to find them. There have been complicated spells, and one final full moon run, and a farewell dinner at the Lupin cottage, because the next day James and Lily began their exile and Elizabeth Lupin began her death. There have been laughter and tears, and vows of loyalty, and finally a parting.

Sirius has also vanished, but in a more normal way—he has hugged Remus, tousled Peter’s hair, and said he’d be back. He parted with a joke, and now Remus looks for him to return the same way, with that brilliant smile and a joke and bright barking laughter.

Without James and Sirius, Peter and Remus drift. The first night, they dine at a Muggle pub near Peter’s flat, and conversation is of their friends. They are subdued, and Peter keeps looking over his shoulder. Remus understands—he, too, keeps expecting their other half to show up. He feels incomplete.

The second night, Remus works late and Peter goes to dinner with Trixie. The third night Peter and Remus go to Hogwarts to visit Elizabeth, and Remus stays after Peter has gone. She is frail and tired, and Pomfrey tells him she will not last out the week. The fourth night Remus leaves work and heads straight to the castle, not thinking about Peter, not bothering with supper. His mother is in pain, and Pomfrey sends for the Potions Master for a palliative, and Remus is unpleasantly surprised to learn that Snape is now the Potions Master. They growl at one another for a moment, until Pomfrey threatens to toss them both out.

The fifth night Remus knows his mother will be dead before he leaves. He is surprised to learn that Snape has spent much of the afternoon with her, though the Potions Master was gone before he arrived. Pomfrey simply smiles and shakes her head when Remus asks why. He spends the evening holding his mother’s hand and whispering to her, and partway through the evening Snape arrives with a final potion. He says it is best taken when lukewarm, and waits, holding the vial, until it has cooled to that. Remus does not ask him to leave, does not glare at him, does not hate him. Snape has brewed the potion that will send her into sleep, a peaceful eternal sleep. Elizabeth has requested it of him.

Snape does not mock Remus’ tears.

On the sixth night Remus Lupin buries his mother, in a simple ceremony at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, with few in attendance. Snape is there, and Dumbledore and McGonagall and Pomfrey. Peter has come, and his girlfriend is with him, though she is wearing a dark veil that obscures her face. Her voice seems familiar to Remus, but he cannot place it. He wonders, briefly, if it is Sirius hiding under there.

He has not slept since she died, and on the seventh night Snape gives him a vial of Dreamless Sleep Potion and orders him to take it. Remus obeys blindly, though it is not in his nature to obey anyone blindly, least of all Snape, and the Potions Master frowns at him for a moment after Remus has swallowed it. Then the world is dimming, and he sees Snape reaching out for him, and he realizes it has worked much faster than he expected.

When Remus awakes, the world has shattered.

 

 _What you held in your hand,_  
 _what you counted and carefully saved,_  
 _all this must go so you know_  
 _how desolate the landscape can be_  
 _between the regions of kindness._  
\-- Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye

 

Dumbledore won’t let him see Harry. Although the traitor has been uncovered—SiriusSiriushowcouldit _fucking_ beSirius—Dumbledore has not lost all of his wariness. He tells Remus to bide his time. Perhaps he will see Harry soon...perhaps...perhaps… Remus spends several weeks trying to convince him, but Dumbledore merely shakes his head and looks sad.

Remus has been to the blasted site of their old home, has stood amid the ruins, head bowed, tears streaking his face. The secret is betrayed, anyone can see it now, yet no one sees it—it is as if, because he is part of this tragedy, he has become invisible.

He has suffered through the memorial service, has comforted Peter’s mother, has stood beside her like a son (Son, here is thy mother, Woman, here is thy son) and supported her while they wept together. He has forced himself to say a few words about his friends, about the dear departed, about the beloved memories. Twice during his eulogy he halts in the middle of a sentence to keep from speaking the name which induces panic—not Voldemort, but the other name, the Traitor’s name.

After the service, as the Wizarding world is streaming out—the world who, mere days ago, was celebrating the murder of his friends—Remus stands at the front of the hall and sees a slim dark figure who is not moving. The person is standing at the back of the hall, with the air of one who lingers against his will. The black hair shines in the obscene sunlight, and Remus knows who it is. He thinks, _I can speak to him now. Sirius was the one who was wrong, all that time_. He begins to move towards the Hogwarts Potions Master, hardly knowing why or what they will say to one another. But he is waylaid before he has gone six steps.

“Remus, what a sad day for you.” The voice is purring, sultry, seductive, hateful. He knows the voice, and he knows the woman to whom it belongs, and he hates her, hates her for making Sirius like her, and he wonders why she would speak to him after years of rivalry.

“Bellatrix.” He says nothing more, just levels a flat gaze at her, waiting. Wondering what she wants.

“I thought you might appreciate some company,” she purrs, curling her fingers around his arm. “I’m sure it’s been very difficult for you.”

“Thank you,” he says, and he is amazed that his voice is quiet, is calm, when inside he is raging at her. “But I’m afraid Mrs Pettigrew will need me.”

“She won’t,” Bellatrix says. “The Scottish Harpy is with her, and that oaf Hagrid. They’ll be hours. You need to be with someone your own age. Someone who understands. I understand you, Remus.”

“You understand nothing.” He speaks tightly, his muscles tensing.

“Oh, come now, Moony,” she whispers. “Sirius wouldn’t want you to be alone.”

“Fuck you, Bella,” Remus hisses, and pulls his arm out of her grip. He strides away from her, searching for the slender man who had been lingering…but Snape is gone, and Remus curses again.

No, he doesn’t want to be alone, but he doesn’t want to be with Bellatrix Black. He wants nothing to do with Frank and Alice Longbottom, because it could have been their son, after all, and they are still happily alive. He wants nothing to do with Moody, who has seen too many people die and who has already tried to comfort Remus by telling him about when he lost his first comrade-in-arms.

The Leaky Cauldron is not where he wants to be tonight. He isn’t interested in Bellatrix Black and her crowd, but he is interested in getting piss-blind drunk, and being left to his own, and a very dark corner in a very dark pub. He leaves Diagon Alley and skulks down Diurn Alley, which isn’t quite as dangerous as Knockturn Alley, though it isn’t the best place to be if you are a Gryffindor and alone. Remus doesn’t care. He finds himself a pub and orders Firewhiskey and claims a dark corner and drinks himself into a haze.

He becomes aware, at some point, that a crowd of Slytherins has turned up here, that they are sitting up near the bar and are laughing uproariously. Later, he realizes there is someone sitting next to him, though he can’t remember when the man arrived. He thinks he ought to know the voice that murmurs something sarcastic, and then he turns his head and it is Snape.

“You’re blind, you idiot,” Snape is hissing at him. “You’d best take yourself home now, before there’s trouble.”

Remus blinks. “Why d’you care?” he asks.

Severus stands up and sweeps his robes around him. “I don’t.” And he walks back to the crowd of Slytherins, where one of the Slytherins—is it Rosier? One of the Lestranges?—drapes a friendly arm around his shoulders and kisses his cheek.

Remus wonders why Snape wasn’t afraid to be seen with him, and then he realizes that Snape had probably insulted him vilely before he was really paying attention. He decides it is true, he should go home, and he staggers to his feet and scatters a few knuts on the table and lurches to the door. He pauses for a moment there, then steps outside, into the teeth of a nasty gale.

He falls twice on his way home, and he doesn’t care that his trousers are getting muddy and his face is streaked with tears again. He doesn’t even care when he vomits into the gutter with the rain pouring icily down the back of his collar. The misery is still there, but it’s at arm’s length now, and perhaps that is all that matters.

* * *

The first-floor walkup is a single room with a shabby partition in the corner for the loo. It hasn’t been cleaned in a fortnight and smells like cheap whiskey and cigarettes and takeaway. Remus goes to work at the Muggle bookshop during the day, then he comes home and drinks. After all, he has nothing better to do. Dumbledore has offered him a position at Hogwarts—Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, what a laugh, offering that position to a Dark creature—but Remus has told him where he can get off with that offer. He doesn’t know why he is so angry with Dumbledore, except that he is angry with the entire Wizarding world, and Dumbledore is a key figure in that world. It does not prevent him from returning, once a month, to the Shrieking Shack, to howl and maim himself for one night, to sleep for two days, while someone administers healing potions.

The transformations are worse now. He thinks, bitterly, that they ought to be easier. He is no longer making an effort to be the amiable chap he has always been. He allows himself to grumble when his tea isn’t sweet enough, makes sarcastic remarks about the punters at the bookshop, wears his hair too long and smokes cigarettes and intimidates old ladies on the Tube. It gives him a private amusement; how much more they would be frightened if they knew what he really was, instead of merely thinking him a street tough. How they would fear for their lives instead of their withered chastity.

But instead of easing the agony of the transformations, this unleashing of his repressed aggression has refined them, showcasing the pain, creating an upswell in his misery. He screams and wails and the noise changes to something more inhuman, but he is still pushing out his human agony in it. He rends his own flesh and slashes his clothes, and when the morning comes, he collapses, naked and hurting, onto the bed, where he bleeds into the coverlet and waits until he feels the awkwardly gentle touch of hands that do not belong to Pomfrey.

He has never seen who it is that tends him. He is simply too exhausted to think or open his eyes, and it isn’t until later that he cares and says next time, next time he will look. And then next time comes and he is too tired to care.

Remus’ drinking has begun to show, in his brittle laugh, the red-rimmed eyes, the way his hands shake when he tries to do something delicate. He is clumsy as he counts the money in his till, as he fumbles out the key to lock up the shop when he leaves. He notices it most when he reads, because his fingers pick at the corner of the pages, and twice he has ripped a page when turning it.

* * *

The day he is made redundant from the bookshop is an unpleasant one from the beginning. He wakes up and falls out of bed, has a cold shower because the hot is on the fritz again, and doesn’t have any sugar for his tea. In a surly mood, he ventures into Diagon Alley on an errand, and is displeased to encounter Snape.

“I can’t bloody get away from you these days,” he snarls, because he Doesn’t Care anymore what people think of him.

Snape looks surprised, and the black eyes narrow as he studies Remus. “Lupin?” It is astonished, disbelieving. Can it be that Snape hadn’t recognized him straight off? Remus is well aware of his shaggy hair, unshaven face, torn jeans. He has been wearing (OgodSirius’) battered black leather jacket, even though it is too big, because he’s had to choose between buying alcohol and buying clothes, and numbness is far more important.

Remus knows he should snarl again, should call him _Snivellus_ \--but that was Sirius’ nickname for him, and Snivellus turned out to be the better man, didn’t he? Remus meets that piercing gaze and sighs but says nothing.

Snape’s laugh is bitter. “How the mighty have fallen,” he sneers.

Remus takes a breath. “Save your spite for someone who cares, Snape. I can’t be arsed.”

“You probably can’t think straight enough,” the other man snorts. “I can smell you from here. Did you try to drown yourself in a vat of Firewhiskey?”

Remus shrugs.

Snape is looking at him oddly, really studying him, and for some reason it annoys Remus. He shoves his hands into the pocks of his stolen jacket (left behind after Sirius’ last visit, last show of love before his hatred was revealed).

“I always thought that you were more than they were,” Snape says finally, and the voice is not mocking, but resentful. As if Remus has let him down somehow.

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Remus says, not sorry at all. “Without them I’m nothing.”

“Then you’re more of a fool than I took you for.” The sneer is back. “All you have in this world is yourself. A man stands alone.”

Remus shakes his head. “All we have in this life are those we love.”

“Then go crawl into a hole and die,” Snape orders. “You’re already halfway there, judging from what I see.” He turns on his heel and strides away. The people on the crowded pavement jostle and hide him from view, and Remus is late for work.

* * *

“The thing is, I’ve tried to be generous. I knew you were sickly and all when I took you on. I wasn’t bothered by it, because your work was conscientious. But lately you’ve been coming in late a lot—take today for example—see, you were supposed to be here at half-ten, and it was nearly eleven when you arrived. And you’ve been acting a bit surly. I understand about your mam, really I do, Mr Lupin, but you’ve got to see my side of it.”

The shop owner was a fleshy man, and he gripped his hat and twisted it in his hands. He wasn’t looking up; Remus wondered if he expected Remus to shout.

“I’ve cut you slack time and again, and you don’t even thank me for it, don’t even seem to notice. Not that I expect much, mind. I just want an orderly shop, someone who knows the books and knows the patrons, and takes responsibility. I thought you were that man, Mr Lupin. You’ve done well for me, the past two years, and it’s for that reason I’ve kept silent so long about this. But it’s been six months since your mam passed, God rest her, and I haven’t seen even any attempt to perform better.”

The shop owner paused and took a deep breath, inhaling through his oddly thin nose.

“And Mr Lupin, coming in smelling a drunkard does not further your case. I hate to turn you off like this, I truly do. But you must see it’s for the best.”

Remus has said nothing this whole time, because what can he say? He simply sits there on the cold folding chair in front of his boss’ desk. There is a heavy burning feeling in his stomach, as if he has already had too much to drink today, though he hasn’t yet touched the flame-shaped bottle of Ogden’s Old. He feels cold everywhere else, though. He knows it is true. He hasn’t been performing well. But how is he to eat if he’s turned away from his job?

“I can see it’s best for you, at least,” he says finally, almost sounding not-surly. “I expect I’ll find some way to continue to pay for my trips to the market.”

He knows Dumbledore won’t let him starve—it’s his own pride that will do that. He could go to Hogwarts, accept the position, take room and board in exchange for the work he did for the Order, something. Dumbledore wouldn’t refuse him.

But Remus will never ask.

“Could I collect my final pay now, then?” Remus asks, and his voice is humble, more like his usual self. “Only my icebox is nearly empty.”

The shop owner releases his crumpled hat, wipes a hand across his bumpy cheek. “Of course, my boy. Why don’t you come out to the till and I’ll give it to you in notes. I truly am sorry.”

“So am I,” Remus murmurs.

* * *

Remus exhausts his limited funds and himself, in the unsuccessful search for work, and finally desperation brings him to write to one of his old professors—the one least likely to carry tales back to Dumbledore. Sprout—fond of Remus and unaware of the drinking—puts in a word for him with the owner of a magical greenhouse. And for Sprout’s sake, Remus tries to comport himself with decorum. He cuts his hair, and remembers to shave at least twice a week, and doesn’t smoke except during his breaks. It is a quiet job, for the most part; Remus passed his Herbology NEWT, but hasn’t done the post-NEWT training required to deal with the more dangerous types of magical flora. He spends his days potting and pruning, fertilizing and watering, and for the most part he manages not to fall apart.

Occasionally they fill orders for Hogwarts, and Remus always packs them with love and gratitude, because even if he resents Dumbledore he adores Sprout. After one such order he receives a friendly note from Pomfrey, who thanks him for giving such special attention to cushioning some of the fragile succulents. Sometimes he wonders if Snape ever sees the contents of these orders.

Remus is friendly to everyone but he makes friends with no one, because having friends is the sort of thing you do if you are alive, which Remus is not. He is not popular, but he is seen as an amiable chap, and that suits him fine. He likes it best when people smile at him and leave him alone.

Eventually, though, the greenhouse mistress notices he cannot handle the aconite without breaking into a violent rash, and after that she watches the calendar and his sick days, and eight full moons after she hired him, he is unemployed again.

* * *

“A bloody damn werewolf! I ask Sprout for a likely student, and she sends me a werewolf!” The greenhouse mistress is a tall stork of a woman, with knobbly knees and a beaky nose that completes the image. She wears a lot of green and brown, and styles her brown hair in a severe plait that falls to her waist. Remus feels his old glower coming back, and finds he doesn’t particularly care. If she is going to be such a frightened old hen, he feels no compunction about frightening her further. He will become the person she has already decided he is.

“Took you nine bloody months to figure it out!” he snarls back, and is gratified to see her eyes widen.

“I had no reason to suspect Pomona would betray a fellow Hufflepuff,” she snaps. “I thought the woman possessed some sense, but obviously she’s been deluded by your—your smouldering sexuality. Feral beast.” The woman sniffs pompously and turns up her nose.

Remus doesn’t bother suppressing the urge the snigger. “Oh, yes, you’ve no idea how difficult it’s been for me not to ravish you in the midst of the foxglove,” he says, his voice laconic. He is enjoying this, being rude to his employer—former employer, now. It is a novelty he fully intends to indulge in future.

She gives a little gasp at that, and it’s obvious he’s offended her sensibilities entirely. Too bad. She shouldn’t have said anything about his smouldering bloody sexuality—as if there were anything to that, anyway. He’s seen no one here to whom he was attracted, and it wouldn’t have been the women in danger, anyway. But he still enjoys her reaction.

“I shall be filing a complaint with the Werewolf Registry!” she declares, her voice more highly-pitched than usual. “They shall hear of this insolence!”

“Oh, please do,” Remus said, and he has never quite heard his voice so amused and so threatening, and he wonders where in Merlin’s name this is coming from. “I would _so_ love to see you again at the trial.”

“Very well!” she fairly shrieks. “I may not report you, but you will leave here at once and never return!”

“Not even to play in the aconite?” he asks.

She is wordless.

“I shan’t leave without my pay.” He straightens as he says this, and she shrinks away from him.

“How dare you?”

Remus grins. It is not a nice grin. “Quite easily, in fact.”

“This is the last time,” she informs him frostily as she counts out Sickles—and yes, he has over a Galleon’s worth of pay coming to him, and he knows she has chosen the silver currency out of spite—into his hand, “that I shall _ever_ hire a Hogwarts-leaver on Sprout’s recommendation.”

Remus smiles. “I’ll be sure to tell her you said so.”

* * *

In fact he is nearly too embarrassed to say anything to Sprout, but he feels obligated to her—how he _hates_ feeling obligated to anyone!—and so he treks to the school, although the moon is waning gibbous, and waits outside Greenhouse Four until her combined Gryffindor and Hufflepuff class is done repotting something carnivorous.

“Remus, old chap! You’re looking a bit stroppy this morning! Care to come inside for elevenses?”

He shoves his hands in his pockets. He wants to refuse, but he’s just been turned off his job, and his larder hasn’t all that much in it, and it wouldn’t be wise to refuse a free meal.

“Thanks, Professor,” he says, keeping his eyes on the ground.

“Oh, pish, none of that now, Remus! Call me Pomona.” She claps a muddy hand on his shoulder and steers him into the castle.

They don’t go to her office, as he had expected, but to the staff room. It is empty except for Snape, who is marking papers with a violence that would amuse Remus if he were in the mood to be amused. He doesn’t look up when they come in, and Remus decides he will play along.

“What’s the trouble, then?” Pomona asks as she drops comfortably into a chair and waves her wand to Summon some refreshments.

“I’ve gone and lost me my job and you a friend,” he says, feeling horribly guilty as she pours him a cuppa and pushes a plate of biscuits at him. “I’m truly sorry, Pro—Pomona.”

She blinks at him. “What, you? How the blazes did you manage to lose your job? Reliable chap like you, amiable enough, dependable worker—what could she possibly have against you?”

Remus thinks he has heard a snort from Snape, but as the Potions Master still isn’t looking at them, he can’t be sure.

Remus bows his head over his teacup. “I’m a werewolf, Pomona. You forgot to tell her that.”

“Because it isn’t any of her business!” she says staunchly.

“I think she disagrees.” His tone is dry. “She did a bit of shrieking, and then tried to send me off without my pay—a fortnight’s worth, I might add.”

“Why, the barmy cow! I never would’ve taken her for a bigot.”

“Call it good sense, Pomona.” Snape’s voice is acerbic. He hasn’t moved, hasn’t even looked up, but his quill is no longer moving over the parchment. “Werewolves do tend to eat people.” He glances up at Remus then, his eyes full of venom. “Couldn’t handle the aconite, could you?”

Remus swallows. “Did you place that order?” he whispers.

“I did.” Snape’s eyes glitter as he studies Remus’ reaction, taking in the small recoil that Remus cannot hide, probably even seeing the treacherous hurt that Remus knows he has no right to feel. “But not for the reason you’re thinking, Lupin. I wasn’t trying to lose you your job.” He doesn’t explain any further, only collects his stack of parchments and sweeps out of the room.

Pomona and Remus look at each other for a long moment. “Well,” she says at last, breaking a silence that has stretched painfully. “Have another biscuit, Remus. I am disappointed. Hufflepuffs are not raised to be bigots.”

“It’s all right,” he says, and his voice is small, humble, diffident. “I appreciate your help. I only wish I hadn’t lost you your friend.”

Pomona’s voice is brisk. “If she dislikes you because you are a werewolf, she’s no friend of mine.”

But all the same, Remus is again unemployed.

 

 _Before you learn the tender gravity of kindness,_  
 _you must travel where the Indian in a white poncho_  
 _lies dead by the side of the road._  
 _You must see how this could be you,_  
 _how he too was someone_  
 _who journeyed through the night with plans_  
 _and the simple breath that kept him alive._  
\-- Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye

 

Determined not to take another job that will expose his disease, Remus reads through the adverts in the _Prophet_ with a black marking pen in hand. He places an X through jobs like jewelry assistant, herbalist, apothecary, managing a till anywhere, or greenhouses. He is pants at Potions-making, so he draws an X through Assistant Potioner, too. For a while he washes dishes at Madam Puddifoot’s, but his attendance becomes an issue, and at the end of summer term, when business slows, he is again without a job. He gives up on the world of his childhood and heads to London. After a series of short-lived jobs there, he gives up on England and heads for the Continent.

Remus is marking time. To what end, he doesn’t know. He simply continues, one day following the next, a sleep-walker waiting for his true love to wake him with a kiss. Or something. He drifts, exchanging letters, making a desultory attempt to keep up the few relationships he has left. His most faithful correspondent is Minerva, and though he knows she is probably telling Dumbledore everything Remus writes, he can’t be arsed to care anymore. He always writes that he is doing well. He informs her that yes, Communism has affected the Wizarding world; yes, disco truly is dead; yes, he is warm and safe and has enough to eat. He never claims to be happy, though he has begun to notice there are moments where he is something more than merely satisfied, if somewhat less than content.

He still travels to Hogsmeade for full moons in the Shrieking Shack, and though he is certain the professors must all know he is there, he is never disturbed, except for the careful tending he receives each morning after the full moon, and the meals brought by a house elf. It still isn’t Poppy tending him, and he continues telling himself that one day he will learn if it is Dumbledore himself who cares for him, or if it is someone else. He never does.

He has noticed, however, that the wounds have begun to heal differently. He wonders if perhaps it is because he is in the prime of his life—no longer a growing boy, nor yet an aging man, perhaps he is the right age for his body to heal itself more quickly. Sometimes, though, the wounds get worse before they get better, and sometimes his recovery is accompanied by nausea or rashes. He wonders if this has been documented, but he never has time to do the research—and if he had the time, it is dubious whether, looking the way he does, he would be allowed into the institutions where he would find the information.

It is a frigid day in March, 1986, when Remus wakes from a shallow sleep in the narrow, concrete-floored room he has been calling home, and discovers a tawny owl sitting on the end of his cot. He accepts delivery and it flutters its wings but does not leave.

_Lupin_

_Where the devil are you? Minerva needs you. Come home at once._

_S. Snape_

He clutches the crumpled parchment very tightly, wondering how Snape has found him, wondering why Snape is writing this at all. He shouldn’t just pick up and leave, but he is afraid of any delay. The envelope is already smudged and torn; he doesn’t know how long it has taken to reach him. Remus sends an owl to his employer, explaining he has received an emergency summons to England, and he hopes there will still be a position for him when he returns to East Germany. He knows it is unlikely. Times are lean under the Communists, even for the Wizarding world. He is loathe to leave the one job that his lycanthropy hasn’t yet lost for him. But he loves and respects Minerva, and measures must be desperate indeed if Snape is writing to him.

Home. That is the word Snape used, and Remus wonders at that. What is home? Severus, he is sure, means Hogwarts. But is the school Remus’ home as well? It is a strange homecoming, if homecoming it is. Remus Floos out of Berlin to Paris, and from Paris to London, and then Apparates from London to Hogsmeade.

He arrives in the middle of a thunderstorm. Because of the late hour and the lowering clouds, darkness has already fallen. Remus arrives at his designated Apparition point—the alley behind the Three Broomsticks—and is immediately soaked. Gasping, he rushes to the door of the pub and hurries through it, shutting it firmly to keep out the weather. A few heads turn, but the quiet conversations do not pause. Only Rosmerta, wiping the bar with a rag, looks up. She studies him as he approaches, apparently not recognizing him, but when he reaches the bar and offers a tentative smile, a brilliant answering smile blooms across her face.

“Why, it’s Mr Lupin! How are you, love?”

“Hallo, Madam Ros,” he says politely. “To be completely frank, I’m exhausted. I’ve come up from the Continent today. How are you?”

“Ooh, the Continent, is it? How are things there, then?”

He pauses. “Communist.”

She blinks, not understanding. To his surprise, he hears a snort of laughter behind him. “He’ll have a Firewhiskey, Rosmerta,” says an acerbic voice behind him. “And one more for me.”

Those words surprise him even more, and for an instant he feels a flash of pleasure that perhaps, finally, Severus has forgiven him. Then hard on the heels of that hope, the more realistic chill of fear goes through him. No, he is too late, the worst has happened, and Snape is hoping to get him drunk before he has to tell him. Remus turns slowly.

“I hope I haven’t kept you waiting long, Severus,” he says. “Truthfully, I hadn’t expected anyone to meet me.”

Snape waves a hand. “It is no trouble. I was in the village for some potion ingredients in any case. I have no objection to passing some time here before going back to the castle.”

“Back home,” Remus says, thoughtfully, and sees an odd flare in Snape’s eyes.

Rosmerta brings their drinks, and Snape indicates with a tilt of his head the corner table where he has been sitting. Remus nods and follows him there, ignoring the way water is dripping down the back of his collar. He is leaving a trail of puddles behind him, as well; when he turns to look, he sees Rosmerta, wand drawn, performing drying spells. She gives him a long-suffering look that he has not realized he missed, and he grins at her in a way he has nearly forgotten.

When he turns back, Snape is studying him.

“You’re looking better than you did.” The words are hard, as if Snape is unfamiliar with giving compliments.

Remus’ grin, surprisingly, doesn’t fade. “Thank you, Severus,” he says, studying Snape in his turn. “So are you.”

Severus makes a face. “You are undoubtedly eating better these days, and I am actually keeping down what I eat.”

Remus looks at him quizzically, and Snape shakes his head. “I read some of the letters you wrote to Minerva,” he says abruptly “I had to, in order to find out where you were. I’ve had no idea, myself.”

It is on the tip of Remus’ tongue to say, _I didn’t know you cared_ , but for some reason he restrains himself and takes a sip of his Firewhiskey instead. It burns going down, and he grimaces in satisfaction. “It’s fine,” he says. He wonders if Severus has read the letters where Remus is politely describing the places he has visited, or the letters where Remus is begging Minerva for news of Harry, or the letters where Remus asks about Severus, and the Longbottoms, and all the other Order members with whom he has lost touch.

Snape is peering at him with narrowed eyes. “Where _have_ you been, Lupin? You come back for the full moon, but where are you, normally?”

Remus shrugs. “Here and there. I go wherever I can find a job.” He takes another drink of his whiskey. “Minerva never answered my last. How are the Longbottoms, Severus? And that boy of theirs, Neville—he’s just Harry’s age, isn’t he?”

Snape is glaring, now, though Remus honestly doesn’t know whether it is because of the change in subject, or because Remus has brought up James Potter’s son. The movement with which he lifts his glass is angry, and he takes a swallow of his whiskey before answering. “It would take more whiskey than I have to tell you about what happened to Frank and Alice Longbottom .”

At that, a flash of real alarm goes through him. “Severus—I was only asking a casual question, but…you sound as if there is more to the answer than that. What has happened?”

Snape tosses back the rest of the glass, then shoots a glare at Rosmerta. Strangely, she seems to notice it right away. She comes back, this time carrying the bottle. “Be careful, lads,” she says. “Path up to the castle will be treacherous in this weather.”

“We know what we’re about,” Snape snarls at her, and she shakes her head with a sigh, and gives Remus a long look that he can’t interpret. He decides he won’t drink any more tonight.

Snape’s hand is steady as he refills the glass. “What happened to the Longbottoms. What happened to Rodolphus? What happened to poor stupid Pettigrew? What happened to Regulus?” His voice is an ugly litany of names, and for the life of him, Remus can’t parse what they all have in common.

“What do you mean what happened to Peter?”

“Bloody bitch,” Snape snarls, and drains his whiskey glass again. “Bellatrix Black. Oh, pardon me—Lestrange. Bloody bloodthirsty bitch.”

Remus reaches out to grasp the bottle of Firewhiskey. “Severus—“

“Get out of it, Lupin.” The Potions Master is furious, yet somehow, after wrenching the bottle back from Remus, he pours a precise amount of amber liquid into his glass. Remus wonders if he has ever ruined a potion because of his temper. Once the glass is full and the bottle left with only a glaze of whiskey on the bottom, Snape sets the bottle aside and glares at his glass. He sighs and hunches over, never lifting that glare from the glass. “Bellatrix Lestrange and her husband broke into the Longbottoms’ home last month. They tortured Frank and Alice into madness. We don’t know what they did to the boy. He hasn’t talked since.”

“Madness…” Remus realizes he is staring at Snape, but he can’t stop. Shakily he reaches for his glass and realizes it is empty. At the motion, Snape lifts his gaze to Remus’, then makes a face and pushes his own glass across the table. Gratefully, Remus takes a gulp.

“What could they possibly think to accomplish by that?” Remus asks finally. It isn’t the question he’d thought he was going to ask.

Obviously it isn’t the question Snape was expecting, either. He looks down at the table, frowning. “It appears they were attempting to discover the whereabouts of the Dark Lord.”

Remus tries to think of something to say, but there’s nothing, really. He takes another gulp of the whiskey, and then Snape seizes the glass back from him and drains it.

“Come,” Snape says. “They’ll be wanting us up at the castle.”

Remus stands, then waits as Severus stands up, too. He has changed, more than Remus had initially thought. He moves smoothly now, unlike the awkward stride of the gawky teenager he had been. All the same, when he comes upright, he does make one quick movement, as if he would reach out for support. Remus instinctively shifts closer to provide that support—and then wonders what he is thinking. Snape would never reach out to him, of all people.

As he follows Snape out the door, pulling up the hood of his cloak against the driving rain, Remus sees Madam Rosmerta watching them. “Hold up a moment, Severus,” he says politely, and crosses to the bar.

Rosmerta shakes her head. “Go on, love,” she says. “But—be careful of him, all right? He’s hurting, and he likes to make other people hurt with him.”

This is confusing, but Remus merely nods and turns to follow Severus out into the night.

The path to the castle _is_ treacherous, and even Remus slips twice. Severus, who is taller but thinner, and has had too much Firewhiskey, stumbles often. Remus finally decides he would rather have Snape snarling at him than have to go to the castle and explain to Dumbledore how he let Snape fall to his death. He steps closer to Severus and slides an arm around his waist. The other man stiffens for a moment, but allows the familiarity with more grace than Remus had expected. When they arrive at the top of the bluff, Remus expects him to pull away, but Snape is leaning on him now, and he supposes the whiskey is going to his head.

Together, they arrive at Hogwarts.

* * *

“Minerva isn’t well at all,” Pomfrey says, her voice hushed. Oddly, Severus is still leaning on him, but Remus doesn’t mind; in fact, it is almost comforting, though it’s strange to think of Severus as someone to offer comfort.

“What’s wrong with her?” Remus’ voice is also quiet, but more because of the choking lump in his throat. Minerva is the last person he has left who feels like family.

Pomfrey shakes her head. “Magical consumption. There are very few effective treatments for it, and Minerva is not responding to any of them. In fact, Severus has abandoned his work on the—“

Severus makes a small move, which apparently catches her eye, because she stops speaking and looks at him.

“Severus has abandoned several important projects to attempt new potion treatments,” she says. Remus wonders what she’d meant to say. He knows better than to ask.

Snape makes an unhappy noise. “She’s responded marginally to my latest,” he says. “But some of my ingredients have been damned hard to get since the bloody war. Pomfrey gives him a sharp look. “No, nothing like that, Poppy!” he snaps. “Just shortages.”

Remus is completely at sea now. “So, er, Minerva?” he asks, to get back to a conversation in which he can participate.

“Yes. She’s been asking for you, which is why I asked Severus to contact you.” She frowned. “I would’ve thought you’d be in touch with a former classmate, Lupin. But fortunately he found Minerva’s letters. He’s really gone out of his way for you, you know.”

Remus is bewildered, and suddenly he can tell that Snape is furious. He doesn’t move, doesn’t stop Severus from leaning on him, but he wonders warily if he can get away from Snape before he strikes. “I’m very sorry, Pomfrey,” Remus says, his voice humble. Humility has always worked best on Pomfrey, and he has recently found it to be useful in many other situations as well.

She sniffs. “I should think so.” Turning, she heads towards the other end of the ward. “Minerva is here. She should be awake.”

He moves to follow, but Severus resists. “I have no desire to spend more time in that woman’s company today,” he says, though it isn’t clear which woman he means. “I will wait here. I have a few more words for you.” His tone is sharp, and Remus nods, though inwardly he flinches.

* * *

Minerva is painfully thin. She has never been a fat woman, of course, but her hand on the counterpane cannot be called anything but bony, and her cheekbones stand out in sharp relief, accentuated by the dark smudges under her eyes. The eyes themselves, though, are bright and alert, and her thin lips part in a smile.

“Remus Lupin, you’re a sight for sore eyes,” she said, and his stomach jumps slightly at the familiar way her Scottish accent lends warmth to his name. He kneels by her bed.

“Minerva, I’m sorry to have been so long in coming,” he says.

“Oh, pish, boy. No need for that. You’re here now.”

He doesn’t know what to say, so he takes one emaciated hand in his, holding it gently. She has always been slender, but she has never until now seemed fragile.

“I haven’t any family left, lad, you know that,” she says. “It’s selfish of me, but I want you here with me when I die.”

He stares at her. “You’re not—“

“Yes, I am,” she says firmly. “And I’m sorry about it, but there’s nothing I can do.”

“But Severus—“

“Has done all he can.”

Remus shakes his head. “You’re wrong, Minerva. He’s brilliant at Potions, he always has been. He’ll come up with something.”

“Don’t get your hopes up, my boy. Just because he may be on to something with the aconite…”

Pomfrey cleared her throat then. “Min, you need your rest. I wanted you to know Lupin is here, but Severus has further business with him, and so have I.”

Minerva gives Pomfrey a sharp glance, which Remus follows avidly. But Poppy is giving nothing away, and finally Minerva nods and closes her eyes with a sigh. Remus follows Poppy back out.

“She isn’t really—is she?” The tightness in his throat is back.

Pomfrey frowns. “I do not know. Severus truly is her best hope now.” She gives him a sidelong look. “It’s good that you have faith in him. Perhaps it will be an inspiration.”

 

Through Snape, Dumbledore has extended Remus an invitation to stay at the castle. The castle is full of students, but there is still plenty of room for a visitor. Remus expects to be given quarters in the guest wing; instead he bemusedly follows Snape down to the dungeons.

Severus has been withdrawn since Remus returned from seeing Minerva. He doesn’t know what provoked this change, unless it is whatever Pomfrey said that displeased him. Why Remus is being treated differently, however, is a mystery. The other man walks smoothly, not looking at Remus, holding himself aloof.

Remus finds it odd that he feels somehow disappointed.

“You’d do well to remember you’re a guest here,” Snape says, opening the door with a wave of his hand over the doorknob. “I’ll spell the door to allow only you or me through, but you’re not _entitled_ to anything, Lupin. Keep that in mind.”

Remus blinks at him. “Of course.”

“I have a potion that requires my attention. I assume you can occupy yourself adequately until I return?”

“You’re going to occupy me after that?” Remus says before he can think better of it.

Something flashes in Snape’s eyes, and Remus remembers the odd look he got when he spoke of home, earlier. Then he realizes it is the old malice that he sees now, and he wonders what he has managed to do wrong in the space of an hour.

“Just stay put!” Snape spits, and turns on his heel to stalk out.

* * *

“I have questions I want to ask you.” Snape has let himself into the room, without knocking. His announcement is abrupt, and just shy of hostile—it’s as if he feels he must come in on the offensive, or Remus will refuse him.

Well, that might be a justified fear, after all.

Remus lowers the book he has been reading, folds his arms across his chest. “Do you?”

Snape’s eyes narrow. They have fallen back into something like their old relations, and for some reason it makes Remus sad, even though he never had any reason to imagine they would do otherwise. “You’re a guest at this castle, Lupin.”

“Attempts to shame me or blackmail me into answering them won’t work, Severus,” Remus says calmly. “What sort of questions are they?”

And suddenly, surprisingly, Snape looks uncomfortable. Not angry or hateful, just—uncomfortable. On another man it might almost be embarrassment. Remus blinks.

“I have questions about—about werewolves.”

Not at all what Remus is expecting. He blinks. There is silence that stretches on for some time. Snape looks increasingly uncomfortable, and begins glowering at Remus—apparently in an attempt to hide his unease.

Abruptly, Remus is suspicious. He sits up straight, a keen gaze fixed on Severus. “Come here,” he demands.

Snape looks back at him. His mouth opens slightly, but he does not speak.

“Come here,” Remus repeats. And to his surprise, Snape obeys. He walks slowly across the floor to stand in front of his chair.

Remus frowns and reaches out, grasps Severus’ wrist. Snape stiffens, but does not pull away. Remus lifts the hand to his face, studying it. He turns the wrist until the underside is exposed to him, then bows his head. Opening his mouth slightly, he breathes in the scent of Severus, and is washed with waves of memories—memories that he had no idea were associated with this man. He looks up.

“Touch me.”

“What?” Snape knows the game is up, Remus can see that in his eyes, but this order has still taken him aback.

“I said, touch me.” And that strange look flares in Snape’s eyes once more as Remus looks up at him.

Slowly Snape tugs the wrist out of his grasp, lifts his hand, reaches out curved fingers to graze Remus’ cheek. It is awkward and hesitant and gentle, and Remus unconsciously leans into the caress, eyes falling shut for a moment. Then, as a thrill goes through him, first of desire and then of fear—because this is Snape, and he can never desire Snape, it isn’t _safe_ to desire Snape—Remus’ eyes fly open.

“It was you!” he gasps.

Snape says nothing, his dark eyes glittering as he looks back at Remus. He is still touching his cheek.

“All along, all this time, it’s been you!” Remus falters. “But why?”

Snape lets his hand fall to his side. “The aconite. I lost you your job.”

“This started before that,” Remus says. Perhaps he should let it go. It is obvious Snape wants him to think it is something unimportant, something meaningless. But for Remus it is either something of great beauty or something sinister—or perhaps it is both at once.

Snape gives an explosive sigh. “Because you tried to kill me!” he says at last. “You tried to kill me, and I would like to know why. So I have been attempting to understand werewolves.”

Remus stares at him, missing the touch, even as he is glad the other man has severed their contact. “No,” he says quietly.

“I didn’t want you trying to kill anyone else,” Snape continues, his voice harsh.

“And you have a way to stop that?”

“I have—a theory,” Snape says reluctantly. “No more than that, and a few flawed potion attempts.”

“That’s why the recoveries were so drastically different!” Remus says.

“Oh, brilliant deduction, Lupin,” Snape says, and for the first time in several minutes he sounds like himself again.

“You had to have been drugging me.”

“If you’d known it was me, would you have let me continue?”

Remus stares at him. It is, oddly, one of the most honest questions either of them has ever asked the other. Perhaps because it is an open acknowledgement of the strange nature of their relationship.

“I—don’t know.”

Snape nods as if Remus had said no. “That is why. I needed your full cooperation. I believe the aconite will be useful, but I am reluctant to poison you.” After a beat, he adds, “I am sure that would lose me my job.”

Remus makes a wry face. “I’m not sure anyone would believe it was accidental.” But before Snape’s face can close off, before Snape’s face can go beyond surprised, Remus adds, “We can go on with it, if you want. If I can help with that effort in any way, I will.”

Snape lifts his gaze and stares openly at Remus, and Remus stares back. For what feels like a very long time, they are silent. Then, slowly, Remus reaches out his hand, and, just as slowly, Snape grips it. And Remus wonders if he might someday remember how to be happy.

* * *

Remus sees first-hand that month just how skilled in Potions Severus is; Minerva recovers. She is in hospital late into April, and even once Pomfrey allows her to move back into her own quarters, she is not permitted to resume teaching. Dumbledore takes her classes, and Remus is surprised to learn that Dumbledore was once the Transfigurations Professor, before becoming Headmaster. Remus, in deference to Minerva’s wishes, is still staying at the castle, still occupying the rooms in the dungeons, though he spends a great deal of time visiting with Minerva in her rooms.

He had not realized until now, how deeply he had hurt her by leaving. He had honestly not expected anyone to care where he went, and is surprised to discover that Mrs Pettigrew has been in contact with Minerva about Remus.

“And,” Minerva says one day, as they sit in a courtyard and sip tea, “I think there was someone else who missed you.”

Remus follows her gaze to where the Hogwarts Potion Master is sitting in a shadowed corner, reading avidly. He does not notice their scrutiny, and for a moment Remus takes the opportunity to watch him, noticing how occasionally Snape’s lips move as he reads, seeing the way the dark eyes dart across the page, smiling slightly at the long, slender finger that tracks his progress. When Remus looks back at Minerva, there is a strange expression in her eyes.

“I have often wondered how things could have been between you, if things had been different when you were at school,” she says slowly.

Remus feels a wash of shame. “I should have done something,” he says in a low voice. “Even if I couldn’t have stopped them, I could have at least tried. It would have been better than standing by and doing nothing.”

Minerva looks at him steadily. “It was why you were made a prefect,” she admits. “And part of why you were not selected as Head Boy.”

“Oh, I didn’t rein James in, so he got to be Head Boy instead?” Remus says, but there is little bitterness in the words. After all, James is dead, and what matters a schoolboy’s hurt feelings in the face of death?

Minerva’s face flashes with surprise. “I had no idea you felt that way,” she says softly. “Why did you not ask?”

“Does the headmaster ever impart his reasons for doing things?” Remus asks, and this time the words are thick with rancor. “Has he ever told you why he keeps Harry from me?”

Minerva looks down at her folded hands, and Remus regrets having snapped at her. She is still recovering, though her old vim is returning quickly. “He says he has his reasons for placing Harry with those horrid Muggles, though I don’t know what they are. He’s never said anything about doing it to keep Harry from you, though.” She sighs. “I think often of the poor boy. I do hope they are treating him well.”

Remus snorts. He knows Petunia, knows how she felt about Lily—her own sister—and James, how she likely feels about Harry. “I doubt it.”

He realizes then that he is watching Snape read again, because at that moment Snape looks up and sees him. A strange expression crosses his face, then he scowls at Remus, snaps his book shut, stands up, and stalks away.

 

 _Before you know kindness as the deepest thing inside,_  
 _You must know sorrow as the other deepest thing._  
 _You must wake up with sorrow._  
 _You must speak to it till your voice_  
 _catches the thread of all sorrows_  
 _and you see the size of the cloth._  
\-- Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye

 

They work together on the “pet werewolf project”, as Snape has dubbed it (not without irony), for over a year, and that summer when Dumbledore asks Remus to take over the Defence Against the Dark Arts position, Remus nearly accepts. He is highly qualified for the position, and he thinks he would enjoy teaching. But he remembers the rumours he heard last year, that Snape has applied for this position, and been denied, and he wonders if having a steady job would be worth sacrificing this strange, brittle new friendship he has with Severus.

He thinks about asking Snape directly, but they are very careful about the questions they ask one another. The only subject about which Severus will ask a direct question is the lycanthropy. At other times, with other subjects, he is skilled at hinting, making pointed remarks until Remus understands what it is Severus wishes to ask. Remus thinks perhaps it is a defence mechanism, something Severus does to keep Remus from asking the questions he does not wish to answer. If that is the case, it works. Remus only asks direct questions about potions; anything else requires hints and silences, and sometimes Snape understands them, and sometimes he (deliberately, it seems) does not.

So Remus declines the position, arranging instead an alternate that Dumbledore approves. In exchange for helping Severus with the potion and Sprout with the greenhouses, Remus receives room and board, and a small research stipend that serves to meet his needs quite adequately. For the first time since leaving Hogwarts he gets enough to eat on a regular basis (because even at the beginning, when he and Sirius were together, Remus’ pride wouldn’t allow him to accept charity, especially from a lover). He has good companionship in the staff at school, and he has free run of the library, and he has a twice-weekly chess match with Snape. Remus has discovered it is possible to be happy.

Full moons are still difficult, but Snape is experimenting with variations on a potion base involving aconite and valerian, and there are times, now, when Remus can describe his time as the wolf. He isn’t injuring himself as badly these days, either—there is still the initial fury of transformation, but once his first fear and anger are spent, the wolf settles into pacing along the walls of the Shrieking Shack. It is tiring, but not dangerous. There are nights when Remus-as-man dreams of pacing, and he knows he is dreaming about Remus-as-wolf.

It has occurred to him that it probably required a great deal of courage for Snape to even set foot back inside the tunnel that leads to the shack. He often wonders how Snape bears it, coming down that tunnel, remembering what it was that had been waiting for him that first time. Remus has never said anything about it. He doubts he ever will.

The first week of July, Remus sends a birthday gift for Harry, taking great care to buy a Muggle book and use the Muggle post. He hopes it will arrive on time; he has no idea how long it takes Muggle things to be delivered, and with the full moon on the 11th he wants to be sure to give it enough time. The last two potion variations have had ill effects that kept him in bed for days after the change, and he doesn’t want to miss Harry’s birthday. He has sent a present every year, though of course there is no way for him to know what Harry would like or not like. Dumbledore may not let Remus see Harry, but Remus doesn’t want Harry to feel forgotten.

* * *

“Why do you persist in your attempts to maintain such a stoic façade?” Snape’s voice is impatient. He is supporting Remus as they walk slowly up the tunnel towards the castle, because Remus refuses to let him levitate him.

“I suppose because it lets me feel as though I have at least some control over my situation,” Remus grunts.

Snape obviously hadn’t been expecting an answer. He is silent for a long while, then says, “Then it has nothing to do with trust.”

Surprised, Remus exclaims, “No, of course not!” and then wonders if that is true. But after another minute of silence, during which Snape’s arm around his waist tightens slightly, Remus decides it is true.

They make their way to the prefect’s bathroom, and Snape seals the door behind them. He leaves Remus propped against the wall and begins running a bath, opening vials and pouring various extracts into the water. Remus can smell peppermint and rosemary; he isn’t sure what else is in the mixture. Snape often explains the making of each potion to him, but Remus has never been particularly skilled in the art, and he only understands and remembers half of what he is told.

Before long Remus is soaking happily in the bath while Snape scribbles notes in a book. He has asked several questions about how Remus feels and how the soak is affecting him. Remus’ answers have become increasingly languid as he feels his tight muscles begin to relax. His eyelids are drooping, and he breathes deeply, enjoying the noise of Snape’s quill scratching on parchment. After a time, even that noise stops.

“Lupin, are you awake?” Oddly, Snape’s voice doesn’t sound as sharp as it usually does—even though he attempts to gentle his behaviour around Remus for the full moons, he usually ends up losing patience and forgetting.

“Mmm.”

“You’ll drown yourself if you aren’t careful.”

Remus gives a warm chuckle. “You won’t let your test subject drown, will you?” His eyes are still closed.

“The state I’m in, I could hardly save you,” Snape admits. “This steam is more potent than I had expected.” His voice is loose, languorous, almost a caress. Remus looks at him, curious about how Severus looks, relaxed. The Potions Master is sitting on the floor, leaning against a bench. His head is tilted back and his eyes are half-closed. His dark hair is like a raven’s wing against the white of the towels and dressing gown. Remus feels a sudden desire to fan his fingers through that hair, and squelches it harshly. _Oh yes, that would be perfect, to begin fancying Snape now that the man is finally not treating you like a pariah,_ he thinks at himself.

“Why are you doing this, Severus?”

“You really can’t believe I would simply do it for you?” Snape asks. There is an odd tone in his voice, something almost sad, or wistful perhaps. Remus can think of nothing to say in response to that, and Severus takes it as agreement. “Then tell yourself it is because I have seen first-hand what the Dark Lord will do with werewolves, and I don’t want that to happen when he returns.”

It’s amazing how a single sentence can shatter a calm, a friendship, a heart.

The meaning of what Snape has said comes clear all in an instant. “You--what?” Remus’ eyes are wide open now, and he sits up straight, ignoring the twinge from his abused body.

“Oh, _fuck_!” Snape utters in very heartfelt tones. “I don’t—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean for you to learn of it like this, Remus,” he says, and only a moment ago it would have mattered that Snape has never used his first name before, never in all the years they had known each other.

Remus glares at him. “It would appear to me that you never meant for me to learn of it at all,” he snarls. “You’ve seen first-hand, have you? The only people who’ve seen Voldemort first-hand, and lived, are Harry Potter—and the Death Eaters.”

“I was a spy,” Snape retorts. “What did you think I did? Transfigure myself into a spare mask? Bloody hell, Remus, you’re not usually as thick as the other Gryffindors! Yes, I was a Death Eater! Do you want the brutal truth? I was a Death Eater before I became a spy for the Order! I served the Dark Lord of my own volition, through my own choice, and it was only later that I came to regret that decision. Does that mean I am suddenly a monster in your eyes?” He is on his feet now and shouting.

Remus feels suddenly that being in the bath makes him vulnerable, weak. His angry pride won’t allow that. He splashes out of the water and advances, naked and dripping, on Snape, who is between him and his towels.

Oddly, Snape gives ground. Remus utters a sharp bark of a laugh. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of me, Snape? You know very well how dangerous I am right now.” He reaches out and grasps the towel, wrapping it around his waist and stopping to glare.

Snape’s jaw is set, his breathing harsh. He scowls back at Remus. “You’re being unreasonable, Remus.”

Merlin! Remus wants to laugh. Years of trying to be friendly with Snape, and only now, when Remus truly wishes he could commit violence against him, does Snape suddenly cave and begin calling him by his first name. “Unreasonable? Unreasonable? Unreasonable is me thinking they were ever wrong about you. Unreasonable is me feeling guilty for allowing them so much leeway. Unreasonable is the fact I thought we could be friends!” He is angry, his voice rising.

Severus’ hands have clenched into fists. “So you won’t even listen.”

“ _What could you possibly say?_ ” Remus howls. “You gave me a Dreamless Sleep potion on the night of their murders! Did you know it was going to happen then? You knew I would get in the way, you knew I would kill Sirius for what he did—and you knew Peter wouldn’t be able to! _Damn_ you, Snape! How could you have done it?”

Severus’ expression has changed; although it is still angry, there is something almost pleading in that stern face. “I didn’t know,” he replies, his voice pitched low but still heated. “I couldn’t even discover the identity of the spy. _Don’t you think I tried?_ I knew how important the Potters were! I didn’t want them dead any more than you did, you fool!” He sighs gustily. “For a time I thought it was Pettigrew, because I couldn’t imagine any other reason Bella would be going out with him. But I was just as surprised as you when Black betrayed them.”

Remus is beyond listening. “Don’t speak to me,” he orders, his voice harsh. “Don’t speak to me ever again.” He unseals the room and stalks out, ignoring Severus’ angry swearing behind him. He manages to get up a flight of stairs and partway down the corridor before he collapses, sobbing, into an alcove. His anger has carried him this far, but anger suddenly deserts him and despair floods in.

Alone again. Alone all along. He should have known better than to trust anyone ever again, because people always betray you. “All you have in this world is yourself,” Remus mutters bitterly, and gives a sobbing laugh. Snape was right—and even then Remus had been too much of a fool to listen.

* * *

He leaves the next day, before he is properly recovered, because he simply cannot stay in this castle any longer. He cannot spend another minute living in rooms that are near Snape’s, cannot bear Poppy’s unhappy expression or the inexplicable disappointment on Minerva’s face. He packs quickly and leaves without saying goodbye to Snape or Dumbledore.

He will go to Mrs Pettigrew, he decides, and that will give him a week to plan his next move. After a year of living in one place, he has forgotten how to drift. Now he is worried about where he will get his next meal, worried about whether he will be able to sleep in a real bed tonight.

Of course Mrs Pettigrew doesn’t know he is a werewolf, but Remus stays only a week with her before moving on. All the same, the pathetic gratitude she shows him for visiting shames him, and he resolves to return again soon.

He has heard of a village in Lancastershire fighting an infestation of doxies, and for a modest fee he clears the village. The townspeople are grateful enough that they offer him twice what he asks, and for a moment he is tempted…but his conscience gets the better of his greed, and he declines. Before he leaves they give him the name of a farmer who will pay to have an infestation of bundimuns cleared from his house.

Two days after the first full moon, Remus is wakes up with a tawny owl perched on his arm. It has a letter, of course, addressed in harsh black letters: _That bloody arsehead, wherever he’s gone_. It almost makes Remus laugh, before he remembers it is a Death Eater’s handwriting he is looking at. He sighs and fixes the letter back to the owl’s leg. “Go on,” he says. “Take it back to him. I don’t want it.” The owl gives him a disapproving look, but flaps silently away.

After the second full moon, the tawny owl wakes him up by pecking at his toes. Remus comes awake with a startled yip and stares around him for a moment before realizes what it is. He glowers at the bird, but it gazes back at him with a level stare, and he sighs. “Go away, you,” he mutters, realizing he doesn’t know the bird’s name. “And you needn’t deliver any more letters from him. I won’t take them.”

By the third full moon, Snape has obviously lost his patience with him, because the bird not only wakes him by pecking at him, but goes on pecking at him, delivering a sharp nip to his hand. Putting the injured finger in his mouth, Remus glares but finally sighs. “Oh, very well. Give it here.” The bird extends its leg politely and lets him remove it, but when he goes to set the letter aside, it flaps to his shoulder and pinches his ear.

“Bloody hell!” Remus exclaims, surprised and offended. “All right, I’ll read the sodding thing.” He smooths the envelope ( _Remus John Lupin, Absent Without Leave_ ) and sighs again. Why does the sight of that handwriting fill him with such turbulent emotions? Why can he not simply accept that Snape, too, has betrayed him, and it only means that life is consistent, and every man stands alone?

_Lupin,_

_I had expected better of you, though why I am not sure. I have accepted that you will not allow me to explain, so you may rest assured that I shall not attempt to do so here. Minerva is sick with worry that you haven’t returned to the Shrieking Shack, and the headmaster himself has been giving that building preoccupied looks lately. I don’t know what you think you’re proving by walking away from us all entirely, but the only thing you’re actually proving is that you’re a fool. I don’t even know if you’re alive or dead, and Prometheus keeps coming back with my letters unread. I assume that’s because you are angry, or perhaps because you hate me. Fine, go on being angry. Go on hating me if you want. But tell me if you are alive or dead._

_Severus_

_P.S. You are being a bloody arsehead._

When he finishes the letter, Remus is smiling, which makes him angry. He turns over the parchment and then wonders if he has a pen. Scrounging in the bottom of his pack produces a pencil. He thinks for a long time before he writes his reply.

_Severus,_

_I am alive. Keep working on your aconite brew. I miss it. Your owl bit me._

_Remus_

_P.S. You would know._

 

After that there are no more owls.

* * *

And so it goes; he travels from town to town across Scotland and England and Wales, walking because there is no point in Apparating when you have nowhere in particular to go, and performing odd jobs ridding people of Dark Arts incursions. He is not happy, he is not even content, but he is surviving, and he manages it quite well, despite the fact that he has taken to spending his full moons in caves and deep forests, and twice has been nearly to the edge of a village when he wakes in the morning. He has no memory of his transformations, and can only hope he has not bitten or killed anyone. But that is the price he must pay, if he is to trust no one. As far as Remus knows, this will continue for the rest of his life, and he believes he has accepted that.

Until one day, quite to his surprise, he meets the Werewolf.

* * *

“You look done in.” For a moment, Remus thinks the man is going to trudge on past his campsite, but ten seconds later Remus’ words seem to register with him and he stops on the path. Slowly he turns his head to look at Remus, and his eyes catch the firelight and throw it back at him.

“Aye.” His voice is harsh and rusty.

“You’re welcome to stop and share my camp.” Remus’ speaks quietly. His senses have already told him much about this man.

“You don’t want me here, lad.”

“Why not? You and I are alike.”

The admission seems to surprise the man. He hesitates a moment longer, then turns and limps into the circle of warmth. It is April, too early really to be sleeping in the woods, but Remus gets the impression that this man has been living in the wild for a long time. He studies the man, knowing he himself is being inspected warily.

The man has drab-coloured hair that falls past his shoulders, and a patchy beard. His eyes are green, which surprises Remus; he has always imagined that his own golden-brown eyes were a product of his lycanthropy. The man’s clothes are ragged, and he is barefoot; his toes look blue, though Remus can’t tell if this is a product of the dim light, or the cold. The rest of the man’s skin is rough and red. He sniffles frequently, a quiet noise that nonetheless grates on the nerves after only a short time.

“Why would you do this, a good-looking bloke like you?”

Good-looking? Remus blinks at this, then realizes the man is speaking of his general appearance: slightly unkempt, perhaps, but no more so than most of the young men who are walking across England these days—Muggles, most of them, just out of university, and quite keen on hostels and backpacks. Remus has passed for one of them many a night these past few years.

Remus hands the man his only cup, a heavy clay one that he has charmed to keep drinks always the right temperature. “Because if we aren’t kind to each other, no one else will be,” he says finally. “It isn’t as if the wizards give a tinker’s damn about us.”

The man holds the cup under his nose for a long time, breathing in the minty scent of the tea. “That’s the truth,” he grunts. “But I can’t say as I understand why it makes you want to be nice. I avoid ‘em all, but I’ve known plenty of young blokes who go all snarly with it.”

Remus sighs. “Perhaps I’m not as young as I look.”

The man laughs at that, but it is a frightening sound, the sort of laughter that comes from bitterness and desperation, not from humour at all. “They all say that,” he wheezes. “But they’re always younger than they look, in the end.” His laughter winds to a halt. “How old do you think I am?”

“Er. Seventyish?” Remus hates trying to guess at age. He’s never right.

The man gives him a dark look. “Aye, look it, don’t I? What year is it?”

“Nineteen-ninety.”

“I’ll be fifty next year, then.”

Remus blinks, unhappy. “I’m thirty,” he replies.

“Think you can take another twenty year of this?” the man asks. “Because I’ll tell you, son, I know I can’t. One of these days…” He rubs at the back of his neck then and shrugs. “Ah, well. What you got there to eat?”

“Chicken. Paid for, not stolen.”

The man gives him a wry look. “When you’ve been out here as long as I have, you won’t worry about whether it’s stolen or not.”

When Remus asks the man’s name, he says he doesn’t really have one, but he thinks of himself as Loper. Remus wonders then if he is talking to the man, or the wolf, but he doesn’t ask. They settle down with the campfire between them, and Remus waits until the man isn’t looking, then casts a small ward to protect himself—just in case. He hasn’t liked to bring the wand out in front of the other werewolf. It would be unkind, a flaunting of what Remus has that Loper will never have.

* * *

The next morning, they clean up their small campsite in easy companionship, and in silent accord they both turn the same direction along the path. When Remus decides it’s time for lunch, Loper agrees casually, and by the end of the meal it is certain, though no words have been spoken, that Remus and Loper will continue on together for a time.

Loper is good company. He is good with his hands, and Remus entrusts him with the pocketknife that has spent the past ten years zipped into the pocket of Sirius’ leather jacket. Evenings, Loper carves little figures out of whatever wood he has picked up. He sells these in the villages they pass, and Remus does whatever physical labour he can find—Loper, he discovers, isn’t strong enough for much, though the man does try. They share their resources, and rarely argue, and always sleep with the fire between them. It is inherent in a werewolf’s nature, Remus thinks, to distrust everyone else. Even—or especially—another werewolf.

They spend the summer wandering northward, and when autumn comes they turn south again, stopping for a few days at a time when Remus finds a farmer who needs help with the harvest. The winter is difficult; the cold is hard on Loper’s joints. In early December Remus manages to find a position with a Muggle stationer’s in Kent. This allows them to take a room in a boarding house, and they stay for three months before Remus is turned away for poor attendance. They move on again.

In March Remus hires on with a shepherd, and Loper wheezes in amusement at the idea of a werewolf tending sheep. Remus is less amused, but that’s because Loper is ill, and Remus has come to think of the man as a friend. They have kept many details of their private lives—their past lives—to themselves, and yet they share their personalities freely, and full moons with Loper have been less frightening. Remus has the doctor in to see him, though it takes nearly all their meagre savings, and Loper recovers, but his lungs and heart are weakened, and it’s obvious Loper’s health is failing him badly.

They struggle on for another year, scraping by, barely making ends meet, but somehow always managing to hold things together. Remus has learned that Loper left his family behind once he was bitten. Somewhere in the world there are a woman and child who may still miss their man. Remus wonders if he would ever have walked away from those who loved him—and then realizes this is exactly what he has done. He feels somehow ashamed of this, and in his darker moments, his thoughts return to roost on this shame.

Loper has pneumonia again in April of 1992, and they both realize, somehow, that he isn’t going to get better.

* * *

“Remus, lad, I want to bid you farewell.”

Remus scowls over at him, carrying a cup of chicken brother over from the fire, where he’s been heating it. “Don’t be ridiculous, Lope. You’re going to be fine.”

“No I’m not.” Loper gives a wheezing cough that soon has him curled double and gasping for breath. “I’m tired of fighting it, and I’m tired of running.” Loper sighs. “I’m going to turn myself in for the bite I done years ago, and the Ministry’ll end it for me.”

“You—bit someone?” Remus asks, his breath quickening.

“Once. Just a little feller, he was. Course I didn’t know it at the time. Woke up with blood all over me, but I didn’t remember how it got there. Didn’t find out ‘til a few days later that a lad next village over’d been werewolf-bit.”

Remus is surprised by the rush of anger this revelation brings. Then he realizes anyone would be angry. Loper is confessing that he condemned another person to this horrible life. Remus’ heart begins to pound—if only he hadn’t been a werewolf, perhaps James and Lily would still be alive. Perhaps Sirius wouldn’t have gone over. Perhaps Snape wouldn’t have become a Death Eater… He is breathing hard as he considers the possibilities. What if…what if…

“Always thought I’d turn myself in, once I got tired of living this way. Only every time I think of letting the Ministry end it for me, I get scared, thinking about what might be waiting for me, over there. So every time, I put it off. Just another moon, I tell myself, and then I’ll do it. And then I want just one more moon after that.” The man has finished drinking the tea, but he still cradles the mug in his hands. He stares into the fire, not looking up at Remus’ face. “And last moon, I said it. Now this moon’s only a couple days away.”

Remus nods, feeling numb. Suddenly he has ceased to see his friend Loper, the person with whom he has shared so many moons. Instead he asks himself, Is this the one? Is this the werewolf who made his life the misery it has been? Is this battered, broken-down old thing the reason Remus can trust no one? His heart is filled with a dark, sick fury, a consuming desire to hurt him, to make him weep and wail for mercy. The desire frightens Remus, but he allows his thoughts to dwell on it, wondering if he would enjoy it, wondering if he could go through with it.

“Have some broth,” Remus says, and helps Loper sit up enough to drink.

* * *

During the night, Remus wakes, heart thumping in his chest, wondering what is wrong. A moment later he hears the snarl from the other side of the fire, and turns to look. Loper has twisted onto his side and his lips are pulled back from his teeth. His eyes are closed. As Remus looks on in morbid fascination, the man twitches, then suddenly relaxes. Some time later he curls up again, breath rattling in his lungs.

Troubled, Remus cannot get back to sleep. When morning comes, he has resolved very little, but he is sorry he has no reason to write to Severus, because suddenly he misses the horrible taste of the aconite potion, and the awkwardly gentle way Severus used to swab his wounds with specially formulated antiseptic potions, and the peppermint tea he brought later to settle Remus’ stomach.

For the first time in a long time, Remus thinks about home, and realizes he knows where it is, and knows there is no way to get there.

* * *

Loper dies two weeks later. Remus is working when it happens, and by the time he gets back to the room where they’ve been staying, it is too late. He calls the Muggle authorities, and they take Loper’s body, pronounce the cause of death to be pneumonia, and arrange for a pauper’s burial; Remus has no money to pay for anything better.

He is strangely numb. Learning of Loper’s sin has confused his opinion of the man greatly. Remus has spent hours wondering if Loper is the one who bit him. Now, with Loper dead, Remus finds it doesn’t matter any longer.

He has gone through his friend’s pack and found a picture of a woman and small girl. They will look much different now, of course, and Remus has no idea where to begin looking, but he will find them. Regardless of how long it may take him, he will find them. He will carry to them news of Loper’s death, and then he will write to Minerva, and he will try to discover if he can ever go home. His pride is no longer worth the price he has paid for it.

* * *

 _Then it is only kindness that makes sense anymore,_  
 _only kindness that ties your shoes_  
 _and sends you out into the day to mail letters and purchase bread,_  
 _only kindness that raises its head_  
 _from the crowd of the world to say_  
 _It is I you have been looking for,_  
 _and then goes with you everywhere_  
 _like a shadow or a friend._  
\-- Kindness, Naomi Shihab Nye

 

_My dear Minerva,_

_I know I have behaved poorly. I know my leaving caused you concern. It was selfish of me to place more importance on my hurt and anger than on the feelings of those I love. I am sure Albus has his reasons for keeping a Death Eater on staff at the school, and I certainly have no business questioning him. He is able to take a larger view of so many situations, and I am sure this is one of those._

_Minerva, I never intended to hurt you. I know three years of silence is a lot to forgive. But if you can find it in your heart, I hope you will._

_Repentantly,  
Remus_

Remus reads over the letter twice before he sends it, dipping into his carefully saved money to hire a larger owl with faster delivery. He has two weeks before he ought to move on, somewhere where it will be safer for the full moon. He hopes she will write back before then.

She does, of course. Her response tells him, in so many words, that his behaviour has been appalling, that she is disappointed in him, that Severus has been utterly impossible since Remus left, that despite all this she cares for him and wants him to come home.

“I cannot come home until he asks me to,” he writes back.

“Then,” she replies, “you will be waiting a very long time.”

All the same, she tells him in no uncertain terms that he is to return to the Shrieking Shack for full moons. Remus doubts he can handle that, if he returns to the shack and Severus sends someone else in his place. But he knows he cannot continue as he has done, especially after meeting Loper. The hatred he felt burning through him when Loper said he had bitten once still frightens Remus.

Even more, he is frightened by the emotions that led him to feel that way. He is frightened of the fact that he still is angry about being a werewolf. He is frightened of the desire he still feels to blame his misfortunes on his lycanthropy. He is frightened of the knowledge that, if he ever bit someone, particularly after spurning the offer of the shack, he knows he would kill himself.

He wonders if Severus has got any further with the aconite brew, or if he has given it up since Remus left. He feels guilty about that, knowing that the aconite brew could have meant sweeping reforms to the Ministry’s policy concerning werewolves. And yet he knows of nothing he can do to change the situation now. He could go back to Severus and plead with him to continue the experiments, but Severus has never been a man moved by pity, and he despises weakness, so pleading is not the way to approach him.

Remus has made many mistakes in his life, and it is easy to see them in hindsight. He can see now that he should have listened when Severus wanted to explain, or that at the very least he shouldn’t have left. He can see that he should have reached out to Severus, that he shouldn’t have ignored that letter, which was most likely a very difficult thing for Severus to take.

Remus is sad, tired, and lonely, and he wishes desperately to go home.

In the end, Dumbledore makes it easy on him. He writes another letter. It is the letter Remus once received every summer, the letter Remus has not received since he last left Hogwarts. But this letter is slightly different, and that difference gives Remus an excuse to accept.

_Dear Remus,_

_My boy, it is with hopeful heart that I write to you to implore you once more to take upon yourself the mantle of Hogwarts Professor. We are once again in need of a Defence instructor, and I can think of no one I would rather have than you._

_Remus, I feel you should know that Sirius Black has escaped from Azkaban. We feel strongly that Harry is his purpose for escaping. I beg you to come and stand against the man who murdered your best friend. If you cannot do it for me, please do it for Harry._

_Albus Dumbledore_

So it is September, 1993, that Remus returns to Hogwarts, a different man than he has been.

* * *

“Minerva said you’d be back. How delighted I am to find she was correct.”

Remus, up to this moment, has believed himself prepared to see Snape again. Now he learns how very wrong that assumption has been. He pauses in the act of hanging his clothes in the wardrobe and turns very slowly.

“Severus, I am so sorry—“

“Don’t delude yourself into thinking I want you here,” Snape interrupts. “I argued against your appointment, and you might as well know it. I’d have thought your past _connections_ with that vile murderer would be enough to give even the Headmaster pause. Unfortunately he is still operating under the delusion that you deserve special treatment.”

Remus opens his mouth to deny this.

“Don’t bother looking so surprised, Lupin. He’s always favoured you over me, and I know it, though Merlin help me if I can say why. Well, don’t bother thinking we’ll be friends. We won’t be. You’re here, and Black is coming, and you are my enemy.”

Remus recoils—he cannot help it. He has known better than to expect forgiveness from Snape, but this poisonous vitriol is more than he has expected. “Severus, he doesn’t favour me over you! I haven’t even spoken to the man in three years! How can I—“

“Oh, don’t I know it?” Snape spits at him. “Three years after you were betrayed by the foul Death Eater in your midst! The Death Eater who saved your bloody damned life! The Death Eater who saved Frank Longbottom’s bloody damn son! The Death Eater who defied the Dark Lord time and again, going through Hell every time this bloody Mark burned—“ He thrust his left arm out towards Remus, though it was—as always—clad in a black sleeve, despite the heat. “But never mind him!” Snape’s voice is loud and sharp, and Remus thinks that it will break soon from the pain and fury in it. “Never mind the God-damned Death Eater who turned his back on the people who tormented him and neglected him and hated him! Never mind the Death Eater we tried to kill, my best friend and me! It’s Snape! Let him rot in his dungeon all alone! Let him—“ He breaks off, panting, and stares at Remus with eyes that glitter with pain and rage and something more. “Let him rot,” he repeats in a whisper.

Then he turns on his heel and stalks away, and Remus is left with an empty heart and only the memory of those black robes sweeping out behind him in the dimness of the passage.

* * *

It is a horrible year.

An outsider looking at Remus’ life and comparing what he has now to what he had before would say that he ought to be grateful. And a part of him is—grateful for the chance to teach, grateful for the chance to know Harry, grateful to have a roof over his head and regular meals and a steady income. But Snape has completed the Wolfsbane Potion without him, and though Remus can tell there are variations in the formula each month—only small things, such as sedatives one month, a blood-coagulant another—he knows he has ceased being useful to Snape. With the advent of the potion, the transformations take place in his room now, and Snape only comes by to take his pulse and check his condition.

Remus’ condition is, generally speaking, miserable.

Of course that business with the Neville Longbottom and the boggart hasn’t helped—and Remus can understand, truly, why Neville is afraid of Severus; but Remus has also made some enquiries, and he knows that Severus only treats the boy harshly because Neville shames him—he is a constant reminder that Severus had to choose one person to save that night, and he saved Neville—and Neville is not even half the wizard his father was. Of course, it is for these reasons, and a dozen others, that Remus is so kind to Neville. Someday, perhaps, Neville will see the Severus Snape that Remus sees; but there is no guarantee. And he wants Neville to always remember that Remus, at least, has been kind.

Remus continues to invite Severus to join him in chess games, despite the fact that each invitation is curtly—if not downright insultingly—refused. In public Remus steadfastly maintains his polite demeanor towards Snape, though he occasionally has a desire to seize the man by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattle.

Halloween night, the night Sirius breaks into the castle, is a struggle for Remus, and the night he loses his first moral battle against himself. He sees Severus’ accusatory glare, and he is able to meet it—but only because Severus is not accusing him of the right sin. Remus should tell someone. If he cannot bear to tell Dumbledore, he should tell Severus, who will be all too pleased to drag Remus to the Headmaster and spill the tale. _Sirius is an Animagus!_ He shouts it silently as Snape glowers at him, as the Headmaster reassures him that it was not his fault. But he cannot force his lips to move.

He pays for it, of course. Later that week, when Snape takes the Defence classes, he assigns an essay on werewolves. Remus doesn’t expect anyone has noticed, except perhaps clever Hermione Granger, but it is the insult of it that stings—that and the fact that it proves utterly that Severus still hates him.

At Christmas he receives further proof, when the small gift he has sent Severus—a beautiful silver quill he has found, and a bottle of green ink—sits unopened on the corner of Severus’ desk for the entire week Remus goes there to take the potion.

Sirius’ attempt on Ron’s life is the second moral battle he loses with himself. He is too much a coward to tell Dumbledore, yes, but he tries to tell Severus. He makes several attempts to speak privately with Severus, but the man avoids him again and again, and Remus finally realizes that he is only persisting because Snape has been so elusive. Remus no longer has the desire to give up his secret and forfeit his welcome here. So he finally gives up, and does not see the speculative gaze Severus sends after him.

The fact that it is followed so quickly by Remus’ sabotage of Snape’s attempt to punish Harry certainly doesn’t help matters, but honestly relations cannot become more hostile, so Remus feels no more pain—just a tired resignation. He will get through the year, he has decided. He will get through the year, and then he will go after Sirius and he will kill him, and perhaps he will be killed himself but at least he will no longer need to face the awful pain of seeing Severus every day and being unable to bridge this horrible gap between them.

But of course, that’s not how things happen, and in the end, Remus realizes he has managed to make things even worse. He shouldn’t forgive Sirius, he supposes—and yet, how could he not? There has never truly been anything to forgive, anything except suspicion, and they all suspected someone back then, didn’t they? Merlin, Sirius is so thin, so painfully thin! Remus thinks about the leather jacket he still has, tucked into the wardrobe with all his other things, and thinks that it would be too big for Sirius now, too.

All the same, he wonders, later, if Snape had been there, already watching, when Remus embraced Sirius.

* * *

The world has changed again, and Remus is arse over teakettle. He wakes up, naked, lying in a pile of leaves. His neck is sore, and he remembers, vaguely, being attacked by a dog. Oh! Not _a_ dog-- _the_ dog. Padfoot. His old Padfoot. Remus sits up, looking around him. He’s in a forest. Yes, the Forbidden Forest…and then all the memories of last night, before the transformation, come back to him. He groans and flops back into the leaves for a moment. His feelings for Sirius are a muddle, and he wishes for nothing more than the relatively simple confusion that Snape brings. Finally he drags himself to the Shrieking Shack, realizing with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that if he’d been spending the full moons there instead of in his rooms, he would have discovered Sirius sooner.

He wakes up again, much later, to a familiar awkwardly gentle touch, and is ashamed when his eyes flood with tears. _You were right about me,_ he wants to say. _I should never have come back. I nearly killed Harry. I nearly killed you._ But he says nothing, merely allows the tears to spill over and roll slowly down his cheeks as Severus swabs the cleaning and healing potions into his wounds.

When Severus gets up and leaves, half an hour later, they have not spoken.

* * *

He appreciates Harry’s anger on his behalf; it is a sign of how much he has come to mean to the boy, and though he knows it is unrealistic to hope that Harry cares as much for Remus as Remus does for him, he still is warmed by the knowledge that he has shared kindness, and perhaps friendship, with James’ son.

Remus knows what is coming. He has discussed the situation with Dumbledore, and it has been decided that Remus will take up residence in a home owned by the Order, a small house in Oxford from which Remus will base his travels. He is going to hunt for Peter, to attempt to prevent this Second Prophecy from coming true. Both he and Dumbledore know this is a futile attempt, but it must be made. There are rumours of Voldemort’s whereabouts, and Remus will investigate them, and he will have a safe home, and he will be spending the full moons at Hogwarts, so as not to be vulnerable.

Severus, too, knows what is coming, Remus thinks. After their silent farewell in the Shack, Remus has seen him several times, but there is always a wall between them. It is not, Remus thinks, a wall of his making. It is one that Severus has placed between himself and the rest of the world. It seems new, somehow. Something in addition to the hostility Severus has always used to keep the world at bay.

Remus knows, however, that he has lost any right he might once have had to question it, and so he simply smiles at Severus with more warmth than mere politeness requires, and wonders. How does a former Death Eater feel about the Second Prophecy? How does Severus feel, knowing he will mostly likely have to return to the secret double life he was leading during the last war?

Because war is coming. Remus has lived through one wizarding war. He knows what the buildup feels like, and he knows this is it.

Remus is able to keep a distant eye on Harry during the Tri-Wizard Tournament, though it’s obviously not enough for Sirius. They have had no chance to rekindle their old friendship, and Remus has no desire to rekindle anything more than that, but they occasionally manage to exchange letters that are vague and polite and hopeful.

He spends the year searching fruitlessly for Peter, and is surprised when the Third Task is nearly upon them. It is the Sunday before, and he expects to spend the day recovering in the Shrieking Shack. To his surprise, when Severus arrives shortly after moonrise, he orders Remus to get up.

“What?”

“Get up, Lupin. You’re needed up at the castle.”

Frowning, confused, Remus nods nonetheless. “Is it Harry? Has something happened?”

“It’s nothing to do with that brat,” Severus snaps, though his eyes skitter anxiously away from Remus’ gaze.

Remus gets cautiously to his feet and shrugs back into his clothes. He is standing with his back to Severus, and he jumps when he feels a weight settle over his shoulders. Glancing down, he finds it is a dark green cloak made of some fine, heavy material. He fingers it thoughtfully and looks up to find Severus watching him. The man turns away without speaking, but Remus has seen in his eyes the words that will not be spoken. _I know how cold you get._

They are silent as Severus leads the way towards the castle, but Remus is exhausted—the full moons have been taking more of a toll on him these days—and stumbles often. At one such stumble, he reaches out to catch himself against the wall—and instead Severus’ shoulder insinuates itself under his hand. Severus says nothing, and Remus says nothing, but for the rest of the trip, Severus supports him.

It is reminiscent in so many ways of his first return to the castle, so many years ago. Severus takes him down into the dungeons, surprising him. There are few students about, and most of them are Slytherins or Durmstrang students. Remus recognises none of them. The Potions Master pauses before a plain door, makes a gesture and murmurs a word Remus can’t hear, and then helps Remus inside.

He is settled comfortably in a chair before he realizes that he is, for the first time in his life, inside Severus’ private rooms. A moment later Severus is holding out a steaming cup of tea, and Remus can smell the peppermint wafting up from it.

“I was a Death Eater. I chose it, knowing what they were and knowing what they wanted, and throwing my lot in willingly with theirs.” Severus sits down across from Remus, moving carefully. “It didn’t take me long to realize my mistake. But no one walks away from the Dark Lord. Regulus proved that.” His thin lips twist in a grimace. “So I made my own way. I came to Dumbledore, told him what I knew, and threw myself on his mercy. He sent me back to the Dark Lord as a spy, and I served him that way until the Dark Lord fell.”

Remus takes a sip of his tea and says nothing. He is carefully expressionless as he gazes at Severus.

“I swear to you that I didn’t know the traitor was Pettigrew—or that it was _not_ Black. I didn’t know when the Dark Lord was planning to strike. I watched too many of my friends die—was responsible for too many of my friends’ deaths—to want to inflict that on anyone. Even one of Potter’s friends.”

Severus’ tone has been even, almost as if he is recounting someone else’s history rather than his own. Remus wonders why he is telling him all this, but there is no graceful way to ask. Besides if Remus voices that question, Severus will probably shut off entirely, and that is not something Remus wants to happen. But the other man has quit speaking, and Remus wonders what is expected of him. “Severus, I believe you,” he says quietly.

Apparently it’s enough. “You walked around like someone who’d been Stunned one too many times,” Severus says. “For weeks, months, every time I saw you I couldn’t get the thought of you out of my head.” He sighs. “I kept thinking how alike we were.”

Remus stares at him.

“We had both lost everything,” Severus points out. “It’s just that you’d had more to lose than I did.”

“And you started helping me,” Remus says huskily. He clears his throat. “Because of that?”

Severus looks down at the floor, then gives a small, curt nod, as if he is ashamed. Perhaps he is.

“I was glad. I was always glad.” Remus wonders if he is saying the right thing, but there’s no way for him to tell, so he simply goes on instinct.

Severus nods again. “The Dark Lord will return,” he says abruptly. He is unbuttoning his sleeve, and after a moment he holds his arm out for inspection; the Dark Mark is almost violent against his pale skin. “This has been growing darker all year. One day soon it will burn, and I will be expected to return to him.”

Remus is staring at it openly; he has never had a chance before, and it is a darkly fascinating symbol. He reaches out hesitantly, and when Severus doesn’t draw back, he allows his fingers to brush it lightly. The skin is smooth. Remus’ pulse quickens.

“I will have to go back,” Severus says.

Remus stares at him. “Go back as a spy? But won’t they know?”

Severus waves a hand in dismissal. “I am the only person who has ever successfully lied to the Dark Lord, and I intend to go on successfully lying to him.” It’s obvious he wants this line of discussion to drop.

“Do you know where I’m living now?” Remus asks.

There is an odd light in Severus’ eyes as he studies him. “Yes.”

Remus nods. “There will always be aid for you there, if you need it.”

Severus draws back, and it is only then that Remus realizes they had been touching all that time. “You offer me aid?”

Remus takes a breath and meets his gaze. “I would offer more, if I thought you’d let me.”

And for an odd still moment they stare at one another. Remus knows what he has said, but he isn’t certain if Severus knows what was meant by it. Severus’ eyes are trained on him, and his thin lips are parted as if he would speak. But then he closes his mouth and nods. “I will keep it in mind.”

He gestures at an interior doorway, which Remus assumes leads to the bedroom. “Go sleep, Lupin. I’ll be back with lunch.”

It is less than a week later that Sirius shows up on Remus’ doorstep, bearing news of a dead student, Voldemort arisen, and the Order called back into action. Remus listens, one hand on the doorjamb, his gaze fixed over Sirius’ shoulder at the horizon, and he thinks of Severus.

* * *

There is a quiet peace between them for several months. Eventually the Order moves into Grimmauld Place, but Dumbledore keeps Remus busy carrying messages and performing various tasks for the Order. It is strange, this time around, to realize that he is one of the key figures in the Order. There is no James to take the lead, and Sirius must lie low to keep from being recaptured. Remus resents the way Severus taunts him about it, but he can also understand. One day, after Severus and Sirius have a particularly violent row, Remus catches Severus in the hall and pulls him into the library.

“Are you well, Severus?”

The Potions Master glares at him. “I am exhausted, and at the moment I am furious. But there is nothing wrong with me. If that is what you are asking.” There is challenge in his voice.

“What exactly do you think I’m asking?” Remus says calmly.

“I think you’re asking me to lay off your dear little puppy.”

Remus gazes steadily at him. “I have no right to ask that,” he says. “I never defended you when he did it. I shan’t defend him if you’re going to have a spot of revenge.”

“No?” Snape arches a brow.

“No. I think it is petty, Severus. But I shan’t defend him.”

Snape looks satisfied. “Keep an eye on him, Lupin. He’s a timed curse just waiting to go off. You don’t want to be around when it happens.”

“On the contrary, Severus,” Remus replies. “That is exactly when he’ll need me.” Snape starts to look away, a bitter twist to his mouth, and Remus adds, “That’s what friends are for.”

The words bring Severus’ gaze back to his. They look at one another for a long moment, then Remus nods. Severus leaves without saying anything else.

* * *

They have a row when Remus goes to tell Severus to take up Occlumency lessons again. Of course, Remus has been expecting this, especially considering what prompted Severus to throw Harry out. It is painful to know he is part of this, even as a memory, but it is unsurprising. Sirius can’t understand why Remus insists on being the one to talk to Severus. Then again, Sirius has not been paying enough attention to anyone to realize what exists between Remus and Severus. Minerva has seen it, and quietly approved of Remus’ efforts. Dumbledore probably knows what Remus is doing. But Sirius cannot see beyond his memories of Snivellus to the man Severus is now.

Remus tells him it is because Sirius cannot risk leaving the house. That, of course, doesn’t go over well, but it is at least effective.

 

“Open the door, Severus!” Remus pounds on the door again. “I know you’re here. Minerva told on you.”

The door jerks open and Severus is standing before him, glaring. “How very accommodating of her.” His tone is dry. “What do you want, Lupin?”

Remus gives him a level stare. “You know what I want.”

“Occlumency.”

“He needs to learn, Severus. You of all people ought to understand why.”

Severus scowls. “I cannot teach the boy if he is unwilling to learn! And he is, Remus. He hates me, and there is nothing I can do to change that.” He snorts. “Not that I am particularly bothered about his hating me. I simply want him to make the attempt to learn.” He turns away, leaving the door open, so Remus follows him inside. “That’s the thing I hate most about teaching. These sodding brats aren’t at all grateful for the chance to learn. They think we’re forcing useless information on them, so they don’t bloody apply themselves at all.”

Remus blinks. “And here I thought it was because you hate children.”

“Well. That too.”

“Your Occlumency lessons may be all that save his life. Whatever Voldemort is trying to achieve by connecting with Harry’s mind—“

“Can’t you imagine?” Severus interrupts dryly.

Remus shrugs impatiently. “In any case, we need _you_ to stop it.”

“No, you do not!” Severus snaps. “You need _Potter_ to stop it. And he won’t. He is wanking around feeling sorry for himself, and he is not applying himself to any of his lessons aside from that bloody secret Association of his that everyone knows about except Umbridge. Yes, we know about it! It may actually mean the bloody creatures learn something this year, so none of us real professors have stepped in to do anything about it. If he would apply some of that enthusiasm to his Occlumency, I could probably make a Legilimens out of him. Bloody insufferable brat.”

Remus sighs. “Severus, please.”

Severus is moving restlessly about his Potions lab, picking up ingredients and then putting them down again. “I am sure he didn’t tell you why I threw him out.”

“He said he looked in your Pensieve. That it was your memory of our O.W.L.s.” Remus steels himself for the explosion he imagines is coming.

Severus whirls on him and glares. “My memory of the time _your bloody friends_ humiliated me in front of the _entire bloody school!_ ” His voice is venomous, in a way it hasn’t been towards Remus in some time. “The time _YOU_ stood by and did _NOTHING_.”

Remus flinches. “Severus, I was wrong. I know that. I am truly sorry—“

“ _Spare me your ridiculous apologies!_ ” Snape hisses. “As if I want them!”

And for some reason that gives Remus the strength it takes to look Severus in the eye and say, “But you do. And I offer them. Because I am, _truly_ , sorry. I wronged you by my inaction, and I wronged them as well. I was in a position of authority and I cocked it up quite badly. I wish I could go change it, but I can’t. All I can do is apologize and hope you will forgive me.”

“Get out, Lupin.”

Remus realizes that perhaps it is too soon to say this sort of thing to Severus. All the same, he cannot feel sorry that he has said it. “Severus,” he begins.

“Get out!”

Remus backs away. “Occlumency?”

“OUT!”

With a sigh, Remus turns and lets himself out. He thinks he hears something smash against the wall as the door closes behind him.

* * *

“Moody! Black! _Remus!_ ” It is Snape’s voice, and Remus jumps. He glances around, then realizes Severus’ head is floating in the fire. He drops to his knees, wincing at the bruises that will leave.

“Severus? What’s wrong?”

The other man’s expression is set and—frightened? Yes, Remus thinks that is not too strong a word.

“Potter has his bloody friends convinced Black is being tortured by the Dark Lord. Where is Black?”

Remus frowns. “He’s here, of course. Sirius!” he calls, though he can hear Mrs Black’s portrait screeching and knows that Severus’ shout will have reverberated through the entire house.

“Umbridge caught him using her fire, and I got Draco Malfoy to tell me she went off to the Forbidden Forest with Potter and Granger. The bloody boy has vanished, along with some of his friends. No doubt off to play the hero again.” Severus glances over his shoulder, then turns back to face him. “I’m sure they’re headed for the Ministry. The boy’s been dreaming of the Department of Mysteries. I learned earlier this week that the Dark Lord is attempting to lure Potter there, to get his hands on the Prophecy.”

Remus feels himself go pale. “Dear God, no.”

“Yes. And if he can kill the boy in the bargain, he’ll do it.”

“Can you meet us there?”

“You know I can’t!” Severus snaps. “I am not to be part of this, because I am needed at the school. If I show up as one of your agents, my façade is ruined.”

Remus nods. “I’m sorry.” He pauses. He can hear footsteps approaching. “Moody, Shacklebolt, and Nymphadora are here. I’ll take them to the Ministry, and we’ll do what we can.”

“I’ll search the Forest, in case I’m wrong.” Severus’ expression clearly indicated he knew he was not wrong.

“Dumbledore is due here any moment,” Remus says. “I’ll have Sirius tell him what’s happened.”

“Remus!” Severus speaks his name just as the others come pounding into the room. He glances at them, then reaches through the fire and grasps Remus’ wrist. “Be careful.”

Their eyes meet, and for a single moment, there is no one else in the world. Remus catches his breath, his lips parting slightly, and then he nods. A moment later, Snape is gone.

Remus turns, still kneeling, and looks, stricken, at the others. “It’s Harry. The Ministry.”

Moody nods once and whips his wand out of its holster. Shacklebolt and Tonks have already Disapparated. Remus stands, preparing to follow, when Sirius grips his arm, just above where Remus can still feel Severus’ touch.

“What happened?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Remus snaps, shaking him off. “We’ll take care of him.”

“Damn it, Moony, I have the right—“

“To get yourself captured? No!” Remus shakes off his hand, then grips his shoulders tightly. “Sirius, you have the responsibility to stay here and not get captured or killed, because Harry needs you. Let Dumbledore know what’s happening. I’ll be back.”

“Moony!”

He ignores Sirius’ howl and Disapparates. It proves to be a mistake. When he appears in the passage outside the Department of Mysteries, he sprints towards the entrance. Hearing footsteps behind him, he spins, ready to fire off a curse. But it is Sirius.

“Kreacher can tell him! You need me, Moony!”

Furious, Remus glares at him, but there is no time to argue. They follow the sounds of battle, catching up quickly with the other three. Harry and Neville are cornered by Death Eaters. Curses and hexes fly across the room. Remus jumps between Lucius Malfoy and Harry, ordering Harry to run, and for a wonder the boy is obeying. Dumbledore arrives-- _finally!_ And then there is Sirius’ taunting voice, and that jet of red light from Bellatrix’s wand, and Sirius is falling--falling--

“SIRIUS!” Harry’s voice is agonized, and it jolts Remus from his stupor. Remus swings around just in time to grab Harry around the chest and keep the stupid boy from following Sirius through the arch. He hears his voice as if from a long way, telling Harry that nothing can be done, that Sirius is gone…

The boy is still shrieking Sirius’ name, and Remus feels as if he should be, too, but Merlin, how can Sirius be _gone_? Then Bellatrix is fleeing, and Remus tries to keep his hold on Harry, but he’s caught by surprise and it’s too late, and suddenly Remus is too overwhelmed to continue the chase. Dumbledore is following them, so Remus puts an arm around Neville’s shoulders instead. Neville leans into his protective arm and they make their way over to Tonks and Moody. Shortly after that, the room seems full of people, and there are Aurors and Healers swarming over them all. Remus shakes his head numbly when someone asks if he is hurt. It is not until someone closes their hands around his shoulders and shakes him slightly that he realizes Hestia Jones is squinting at him in concern.

He attempts to answer her questions, but his heart is wailing Sirius’ name over and over, and finally he gives up and puts his head in his hands and slumps to the floor.

“Remus. Remus. _Remus._ ”

Finally the voice penetrates the fog in his brain, and he lifts his head. Severus is kneeling in front of him, hands braced against his knees, a look of concern etched across his thin face. “I was beginning to fear you’d been hit with a slow-acting curse and died sitting against the wall,” Severus says, and his voice is utterly stark.

Remus looks at him.

“Dumbledore said you needed me. I didn’t understand.” Snape leans forward and puts an arm around Remus’ shoulders. It ought to surprise Remus, but all he feels is a vague interest.

“Come on, you have to stand up. I can’t lift you on my own.”

Remus wonders why Snape doesn’t just levitate him, and when he allows his gaze to meet Snape’s, the other man grimaces. “I remember well enough that you don’t like that.”

Remus sighs and allows Severus to pull him to his feet.

* * *

When Remus awakes, he has no idea where he is.

The light coming in is green-filtered, and he is under thick covers, but he is only pleasantly warm. This is not his bed.

Someone else is breathing beside him.

Remus turns his head, and is somehow not surprised to find Severus sprawled atop the covers next to him. For some reason he can’t work up the energy for surprise. He takes a breath, and suddenly he remembers that Sirius is gone-- _gone_ \--and he is the last.

He stares at the dark green canopy over his head for a very long time.

“I have potions that will help.” Severus’ voice is quiet. He has not moved, but his eyes are open. Remus doesn’t answer for a lot time.

“I don’t want to forget.”

“They can dull the pain. They can make you not care.”

“I want to care!” Remus says, his voice violent. There is a moment of silence. Then:

“Good.”

Remus turns to look at Severus in surprise. The movement makes him realize how close they are, although they are not touching. “I always have thought that you are more than they were,” Snape says finally, and his voice is satisfied, as if he has been proven right.

Remus stares at him in silence for a long moment. “You were wrong, you know,” he said slowly, a decades-old memory coming back to him. “No one has to stand alone.”

Severus’ gaze is penetrating, his voice sardonic. “I earnestly hope you have learned that lesson well, you fool.”

Remus is surprised to discover he can still smile. It is not a strong smile, and it does not last. But it is a smile. “I may require occasional reminders.”

A solemn nod. “That can be arranged.”

They are silent. Not because there is nothing more to be said, but because there is too much to be said. They don’t even look at each other, but at the canopy, and yet somehow Remus believes he will soon remember how to be happy again.


End file.
